


the world's gonna know your name

by Slumber



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Future Fic, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: It takes sixteen years for Yuri Plisetsky to win gold at the Winter Games—a shining star, bright, blinding.Here I am, he says. The crowd roars their applause.Your victor.It takes a mere five seconds—one caught edge on a routine landing—to turn him to stardust.





	the world's gonna know your name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Yuri Plisetsky-centered fanzine, [Edge of Glory](https://edgeofgloryzine.tumblr.com/), in collaboration with [HappyFluids](https://twitter.com/happyfluids), [CyanoScarlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanoscarlet), and [Gen](http://chou-hei.tumblr.com/). Many many thanks to [tau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tauontauoff) and [C](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccharlotte), who beta'ed this piece. <3

It takes sixteen years for Yuri Plisetsky to win gold at the Winter Games. At sixteen years, 11 months, and 16 days, he is the youngest male champion in the modern era.

Blood runs hot like lava through his veins, lungs straining as he gulps for air, arms to the skies. 

It takes sixteen years for Yuri Plisetsky to win gold at the Winter Games—a shining star, bright, blinding.

_Here I am_ , he says. The crowd roars their applause. _Your victor._

It takes a mere five seconds—one caught edge on a routine landing—to turn him to stardust.

* * *

The prognosis: surgery, physical therapy, more surgery, more physical therapy. The doctor sees the defiance in his eyes and declares a return to the sport likely, but improbable. Dangerous.

The doctor doesn't know what Yuri Plisetsky is capable of.

He bears it all because he has no choice; he pushes because he is who he is; he gets a second opinion, a third, a fourth. 

He is on the ice just six months later, six months too early. At that moment, he knows. The fire in his core flickers to fear, to uncertainty. 

The prognosis all along has been retirement.

* * *

They want him pouting. They want him smoldering. They cake his face with purple shadow and thick eyeliner, bringing out the green in his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones.

"Fiercer!" they tell him. "Welcome us back to the madness!" Like that's all it takes to bring his defiance back, like defiance is all he ever was.

He growls, breaking something when he flings it across the room. They smile like predators, cameras clicking, flash blinding.

"Perfect."

But later, when the interviewer asks questions that cut like knives digging into fresh wounds, it's clear _perfect_ is not what they're after.

* * *

Yuri's fingers are sticky with yolk and flour, the mixture sliding beneath his fingernails as he dredges the pork cutlets. His grandfather hums approval, watching the breaded cutlet sizzle golden as Yuri washes his hands, dries them with a faded tea towel.

"This is almost done," Grandpa says.

"I'll get the dough."

"We'll need the rice and peas."

"Yes, Grandpa."

Grandpa didn't ask questions when he showed up, luggage and all. He just opened the door wider and hugged Yuri hard.

"Did I ever show you how I shape these?" Grandpa asks now, voice rough but eyes full of love.

* * *

Almaty is different now. 

The traffic is worse, the skies are more polluted, sleek new buildings have replaced the old. It takes him twice as long to get out of the city center.

The last time he was here, the land was just land. Now there's a rink, with grey walls and opaque windows, the slash of blade on ice echoing when he steps inside.

Otabek has both hands buried in his coat pockets. When he looks at Yuri, his gaze flickers up.

"Your students need to work on their form." 

"Why do you think I asked you to come?"

* * *

Hasetsu stays the same.

It's impossible to think how little it's changed. Yuri walks through the streets and he's fifteen again, barreling recklessly through, demanding the whereabouts of one Viktor Nikiforov.

He's at the rink today because it's noon and he keeps a schedule now. Yuri finds him chatting with a rink patron in his accented Japanese, charming her with his dazzling smile.

"Yurio!"

"Where's Katsudon?"

"Behind you."

Yuri turns around and Yuuri is following in after him with a smile, a small child sleeping soundly in his arms.

_Their_ small child.

"We're so glad you can finally meet Hina."

* * *

Beijing is overdense and smothering. 

Viktor chatters endlessly about exploring the city, but as soon as they land they're ushered directly to their hotel, then a producers' meeting, then the arena.

Their broadcast booth is too hot from the harsh light directed at him and Viktor. When they watch the programs it's through the screens, their backs to the ice.

Viktor's smile is warm, guileless, a natural for the camera. His legacy is eternal.

"His jumps are powerful," Viktor commentates, "but it's his skating that's truly transcendent. Wouldn't you agree, Yuri?"

Yuri was transcendent at fifteen too.

Transcendent and ephemeral.

* * *

He almost doesn't attend Georgi's wedding, but Yuuri leaves him a message and Viktor sends him a thousand texts.

_Are you going?_ he asks Otabek.

_Why wouldn't I be?_

Yuri flies to St. Petersburg, sits sandwiched between Mila and Phichit in a massive church.

"Come visit me!" Phichit tells Mila. "You too, Yuri! I'll take you both around Thailand."

Mila beams. "Do we get a tour of your studio too?"

Phichit's hosting variety shows now. Mila's getting a degree in business.

Georgi's getting married.

Yuri rests his chin on his palm, catches Otabek's raised eyebrow. 

_Boring_ , he mouths at him.

* * *

"They're good," Nishigori had said. "Almost too good."

"No one can ever be too good," Yuri had scoffed, but he reconsiders that now, hands on his hips as he contemplates Axel, Lutz, and Loop. Not one of them notices the growing irritation on his face, too engrossed in their phones, though their arabesque penchées remain impeccably flawless. 

It doesn't matter. No one can ever be too good.

With a huff he stalks down the row, plucking each offending phone from their grasp, shooting them glares when they whine. 

"Legs up," he snaps. 

_Surely_ he'd never given Yakov this much grief.

* * *

"I hear the triplets took the podium." Otabek's voice is warm and sleep-thick. "Congratulations."

"JJ's going to coach them next season," Yuri says. "I already asked."

"Coaching's not for you, then?" Otabek doesn't sound surprised.

"Coaching's not for me." Yuri sighs. "How's your rink doing?"

Otabek lets him steer the conversation away, fills the quiet until he runs out of stories, until Yuri runs out of distractions.

"I don't know what's for me anymore," he confesses. "I've only ever been great at skating. I've tried everything—"

"Everything in skating, maybe. But your world doesn't have to revolve around the rink."

* * *

Yuri doesn't know a life outside skating.

Otabek DJs sometimes, but he runs his skating camps for Kazakhstan. Viktor and Yuuri have Hasetsu, a shared legacy, their daughter Hina—life and love on and off the ice intertwined. Giacometti is choreographing programs, JJ is coaching.

Yuri doesn't want a life around the ice, doesn't want to chase illusions of glory long past his time.

Mila's in Moscow now, doing something boring in an office. Georgi's a family man, according to Facebook.

Yuri brought it up once, but Grandpa only laughed. "Yurochka," he had said, "you were not made to fade."

* * *

The spotlight is as harsh as ever. It finds him when he steps out from the shadows, glare bright on his face.

The spotlight adores him. It follows him as he struts down his runway, each step surer than the last, light catching on the silver threads embedded in the suit he wears. The suit he made.

One arm is heavy with a massive bouquet—Viktor and Yuuri send their love. Yuri lifts the other arm in triumph; thunderous applause echoes in his ears.

At twenty-seven years old, Yuri shines brighter than ever.

_Here I am_ , he says. _Your victor._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love! <3
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/slumberish) and [tumblr](http://slumbrslumbrs.tumblr.com/) if you wanna holler.


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